


broken boy (rewrite)

by halo21



Category: Nirvana (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Depression, Drug Addiction, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infidelity, Non-Linear Narrative, Photography, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: "i've got this friend, you see, who makes me feel..."🖤anastasia truehart was always more than nirvana's go-to photographer. the world might not have known as much, but she and kurt did.
Relationships: Kurt Cobain/Courtney Love, Kurt Cobain/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. one

_April 5, 1994_

Three messages.

One from Krist, one from Dave, and one from Patty.

Each one contained something different, — some discrepancies in detail or sentiment, — but all of them worked together to send me into a panic.

The first one was Krist's. His voice was choked as he delivered the first blow, thick with tears. "Anastasia," he said, "you've gotta get over to Virginia Mason. It's Kurt... Something awful's happened."

The second one was Patty's. She wasn't anywhere near as audibly hysterical as Krist had been, — in fact, she sounded more bewildered than anything else. "Hey," she started. "I'm on my way to the hospital. Eric told me Kurt's there? Said something about smack... something else about a gun..."

The final one came from Dave. To my surprise, his was the calmest, — his usual excited speech had been slowed, coming out flat and oddly emotionless. "Hey, Ana. Just wanted to let you know that I'm over here at Virginia Mason Medical... I'm saving you a seat in the waiting room. Get back to me when you can."

With the end of that message, the automated system informed me that I had no more voicemails. I didn't even bother to return the phone to its holder before reaching for my coat and shoes. Pulling my keys from my pocket, I rushed to close and lock the door before racing down the stairs, not even considering the elevator.

As I raced down those steep steps, I could hear my blood rushing in my ears. Almost automatically, I found myself sending out prayers to something that I had never previously thought to exist.

 _Please, God,_ I thought as I struggled not to trip over my own feet. _Please, please, please don't let him be dead._

I reached the bottom of the last flight of stairs and rushed out the door. The humid air threatened to smother me as I gulped greedy mouthfuls of it, unlocking my car with shaking hands.

As soon as I managed to do so, I flung the driver side door open, tearing out of the apartment complex parking lot without bothering to buckle my seatbelt.

On autopilot, I managed to follow the roads to Virginia Mason Hospital, despite the fact that I hadn't had any need to go there in well over a year.

All the while, thoughts rushed through my mind with the all-consuming ferocity of a hurricane.

None of it made any sense, and I didn't want it to. One thought in particular repeated like a broken record.

 _I_ _saw_ _him last week,_ I thought to myself, _and he was fine._

Well, maybe not quite _fine_. But he had seemed better than he had the previous few times, somewhat close to clear-headed. Coherent enough to make plans, dropping hints at what might happen in the near future...

I swallowed hard, tightening both hands around the steering wheel.

I shouldn't have believed him, shouldn't have gone back to trusting him so blindly.

Hell, he had done a series of terribly stupid things over the course of the past few months, — warning signs, as was becoming apparent.

Escaping rehab. Pushing away most of the people who cared about him. Buying a gun.

My stomach dropped at that thought.

Oh, fuck.

_The gun._

I tried to keep my breathing steady, maintaining my death grip on the wheel as I made a too-sharp turn.

Patty had said something about a gun. I struggled to remember if she had said anything specific, but nothing came to me.

I found it even harder to breathe as a frightening possibility occurred to me: she might not have even known.

I swallowed hard, desperately attempting to ward away any threat of tears or vomit.

For a moment, I tried to reason with myself, — this whole thing could just be some majorly fucked-up game of telephone. Maybe things weren't really as dire as they seemed, — some things might have gotten twisted along the way.

Maybe his stomach was getting to him again, and everyone was assuming the worst. Maybe it was all a false alarm, a godawful joke.

 _No,_ some voice in the back of my mind said. _It's all too real. You should have seen this coming, Anastasia. Why didn't you see it coming?_

I tried to push all thoughts out of my head as the hospital came into the view through the fog.

I pulled into the parking lot, making my way into the closest open spot that I could find.

I parked hastily, jerked the keys from the ignition, and threw the door open once again, stepping back out into the rain.

The automatic doors opened. The lobby greeted with me with lukewarm air and an odor that smelled clean and stale all at once, some sickening mixture of chicken soup and cleaning fluids.

The older woman stationed behind the front desk lifted her head as I staggered to a halt in front of her. She raised her eyebrows, eyeing me appraisingly. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to see..." I stopped myself quickly, remembering who I was talking about.

He wasn't just any other patient, one of several hundred nobodies.

He wasn't just a friend, father, lover, as so many of the other people languishing in those crisp white beds might have been.

He was _somebody_ , just like I had always figured he wanted to be. The name that I was about to speak was likely in the mouth of a million other people, — people he'd never met, who felt like they knew him all the same.

I lowered my voice as I finished the sentence, leaning closer to the woman. "Kurt Cobain."

The women's brow lowered as the rest of her face dropped. She eyed me coldly, as though I were wasting her time, and she was waiting for me to say 'sike.'

When I didn't recant my statement, she opened her mouth again, letting her dismay slip into he space between us. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

I shook my head, shaking droplets of water from my hair onto the desk. "I promise you, I'm not," I insisted. "I'm Anastasia Truehart. His phot—" Once again, I stopped myself mid-sentence.

Kurt's photographer. That's how I'd introduced myself for years.

But I was more than that. Here, in the lobby of the hospital that he might've been dying in, I figured I had nothing to lose in saying as much.

"Kurt's very close friend," I corrected myself.

The woman continued frowning up at me. Clearly, she wasn't buying it.

"Could you prove that to me?" she asked. "Well, even if you could, it wouldn't matter. I can't disclose patient information to anyone but family, ma'am. Especially on the rare occasion that the patient is a public figure. Christ almighty, you fanatics will stop at absolutely nothing, will you?"

Heat rushed to my face as my mouth fell open. I wanted to inform her that I was not a fanatic of any sort, and, even if I wasn't technically family, I was close enough to it.

What else would you call someone who had tried desperately to help another person battle his demons?

Someone who was there for every bump in the road he had experienced over the past four years?

Someone who held his baby daughter when he wasn't even allowed to, vowing to protect her even if he couldn't?

Someone who had known every version of him, — the artist, the friend, the father, the humanly flawed man? 

Of course, it wasn't like those words would change her mind. But if she was the only one there to hear them, I had to put them out there now. Before he was gone.

As it would turn out, I didn't have to.

"Anastasia?"

I turned around at the sound of the hoarse but familiar voice, feeling some of the tension dissipate as I took in the towering figure beside me.

Krist clapped a large hand over my shoulder, nodding at the receptionist. "Excuse my sister," he said politely. "I had been looking for her."

The woman gave a noncommittal hum, still fixing me with a suspicious glare. In spite of this, Krist steered me away from the desk, towards the elevator.

He pressed the button, allowing the machine to open for us with a flat chime. Silently, I followed him inside.

Krist punched in a floor number, and I felt the familiar flip of my stomach as we began to rise towards the next level.

We waited wordlessly for the most part as we bypassed several floors. Just before the door opened, however, he offered me one tidbit of information.

"He's in the ICU," he said. "Dave just got there about thirty minutes ago. As soon as I saw him, he told me to go wait for you."

His last words shocked me. "I... I, um, didn't tell him I was coming," I stammered.

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he replied. "He knew you'd be here. We know you, Anastasia."

I swallowed the building lump in my throat, nodding.

The doors reopened with a whoosh, greeting us with cold air and the sight of blinding white walls. Unlike the lobby, the smell of the intensive care unit was completely chemical, — strong enough to churn the stomach on its own, but even more so when you considered just what that smell might be concealing.

I followed Krist off the elevator, trying desperately to keep my footing. With every step I took, I was more and more tempted to just crumble to my knees, too afraid of what might await me to even attempt facing it.

Krist led me to a row of plastic blue chairs, their backs pushed up against the wall. Several people sat on them, most with their heads down.

As soon as we stopped, however, one of those heads shot up.

I watched as Dave rose to his feet, pulling the hood of his jacket off from over his head. Cautiously, he stepped towards me, as if he were approaching a wounded animal.

As his dark eyes met mine, he offered me the weakest smile I had ever seen from him, all too insincere. "Hey," he said quietly.

Rather than greeting him in return, I found myself falling forward, throwing my arms around him as I choked on a sob. He caught me, arms wrapping around my waist.

"Ana," he murmured to me. "Hey, Anastasia. It's okay. We're all here together."

I pulled away, sniffing as my gaze meet his. Before I could even consider what they meant, a barrage of words slipped from my mouth, — endless inquiries that barely even made sense to me.

"Patty," I started. "Patty called me, —is she here? Courtney... is she on a plane back? Donald, Wendy... Frances! Who has Frances?"

"Ana, listen to me." Dave's hands slid from my back to my shoulders, which he held onto tightly. "Patty called me, too. She's at Kurt and Courtney's place. As for Courtney... Well, no one I've talked to has heard from her, so, as far I know, she's not even in Washington. And don't worry, — Wendy still has the baby. Patty told me that she and Frances were on their way over there... and I might take you that way if you ever calm down."

I shook my head, struggling to register his response. "Kurt and Courtney's?" I asked. "Wasn't he there when... Aren't the cops there? Did he..." A flash of metal appeared in my mind, stopping me cold.

"The gun," I gasped. "Oh, shit, Dave, — the gun! What did Kurt do with the gun?"

"Anastasia!" Before I knew it, Dave wasn't holding onto me anymore. Krist had my back pressed against his chest, holding me still as Dave looked on helplessly. He leaned down, muttering into my ear.

"Be quiet," he told me, traces of tears still in his voice. "They're gonna call security on us if we aren't careful. Besides, we aren't the best people to be making a scene. Understand?"

I nodded. With that, he released me.

Dave took another step forward, taking my hand. "Why don't you sit down?" he asked gently. "I'll tell you everything I know, alright?"

I nodded again. Dave helped me lower myself into one of the blue chairs before taking a seat beside me.

"There." He took my hand once more, before tipping his chin up at Krist. "Wanna go get her some water?"

Krist nodded before sauntering off.

Dave turned to look at me. "Right." He cleared his throat before lowering his voice. "Ana, Kurt didn't do anything with that gun. It was there, — which scared the shit out of everybody, — but they didn't find anything... on him."

I blinked. "You mean... he didn't shoot?"

Dave shook his head. "Nope. No wound." He paused, seeming to consider something. He opened his mouth again.

"Of course, that doesn't mean he wasn't planning anything. Just seems like the drugs got to him before he could go through with any plans he might have had."

My blood ran cold again. "The drugs," I echoed. "Heroin, right? He overdosed?"

"Yeah." Dave sighed, squeezing my hand as his eyes moved towards the floor. "Yeah, he did."

"But he's going to be okay, right?" The words were just slipping from my mouth now, — meaningless word vomit. "They found him in time..."

Dave's eyes lifted back towards me. "He's in critical condition, Anastasia. That's all I know."

"Oh." The tears welled back up in my eyes. "Of course," I choked out.

Dave's expression softened as he released my hand. "Don't cry, Ana," he said softly. "We don't really know anything. These things can turn on a dime."

I wiped at my eyes, breathing faltering. "Yeah," I agreed. "That's the scary thing, isn't it?"

Without another word, Dave threw an arm around my shoulders, pulling me back towards him as my tears began flowing freely.

Around this time, Krist returned with a small paper cup full of water. With a sigh, he settled into the open seat on my other side, abandoning the cup on the linoleum as he returned his hand to my shoulder.

And so I sat in silence in that hospital waiting room, the cold seeping into my bones despite the warmth of two of my closest friends on either side of me.

I closed my eyes, trying desperately to escape to somewhere else, — anywhere but this fucking nightmare of a place.

That's how I ended up back at the very beginning.


	2. two

_July 1, 1987_

It was just getting completely dark when I reached to the top of the bridge. I had been crying the entire climb uphill, only taking breaks to take generous swings from the vodka-filled flask that I had snuck along with me. I relished the familiar burn of the alcohol sliding down my throat, the taste of it not even phasing me.

Finally, I reached at the peak. At this point, I dropped the flask back into the messenger bag slung over my shoulder before making my way towards the edge.

Wobbling a bit, I approached the barrier separating my drunken body and the depths of the Wishkah River. Coming to a stop, I allowed myself to lean over just slightly, considering things for a moment.

The sickeningly moist summer air wrapped itself around me like a warm, wet blanket. I closed my eyes, leaning further forward, chest pressed against the railing as I felt my heartbeat speed up just slightly.

A weak breeze blew through my hair as I inhaled deeply through my nose.

I tried to imagine somewhere beautiful, — like the Pacific Ocean.

Yes, that was quite the mental picture: my body dangling over a cliff as I stared down into endless, brilliant blue waters, this close to diving right in and holding myself down, leaving myself to sink into the unexplored depths when I finally forced my body to stop struggling.

When my eyes shot back open, however, I was sorely disappointed.

This wasn't anywhere close to my ideal dying place. Just the smell alone was enough to make me reconsider.

Mud, along with something unexplainably dirty and sour. I wrinkled my nose, considering the body of water below me.

There was no telling what was down there, what grotesque creatures might feed off my remains.

That thought was enough to cause me to straighten a bit, relieving the barrier of my weight.

As soon as I did, an unfamiliar voice cut through the dark. "Thank God."

I jumped, unwittingly bringing myself back to where I was just moments ago.

"Whoa!" Two hands, — large ones, by the feel of it, — came to rest on either side of my waist, pulling me backwards. "Jesus Christ, back over here—"

With the panicked realization that there was a stranger touching me, I began to wiggle, trying to break his grip.

"Let me go!" I shouted, blindly attempting to aim my elbows at some tender part of the guy's body. "Stop touching me, or I'll cry rape!"

"Okay, okay!" Just as soon as the hands had been there, they were gone. Thus, I was left standing there, awkwardly trembling as my fellow bridge dweller stepped back. Through the dark, I could only make out his two offending hands, now raised in surrender.

For the moment, that was enough.

I took in a shallow, shaky breath, crossing my arms over my chest as I faced this shadow of a man. I waited a moment, — perhaps he would flee before I took note of any of his features.

Alas, he remained rooted there, as if this were some form of standoff.

I rolled my eyes, blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face before speaking up.

"What the hell were you doing?" I demanded. "Is this your thing, — preying on girls in the middle of buttfuck nowhere? Because that's real original, first of all..."

"Good God, I wasn't trying to hurt you," he interrupted me. "I was trying to keep you from jumping." He paused for a moment, appearing to reach into a pocket and extract something.

Only when a faint reddish glow cut through the dark did I realize that it was a cigarette.

My companion took a puff off of it before continuing his explanation. "God knows that the last thing I need is to witness another suicide."

"Well, that's very sweet of you, making this about yourself and all." I turned on my heel, beginning the downhill climb back towards the streets.

As it would appear, this displeased the smoker behind me. "Where're you going?" he asked.

I snorted. "What's it to you?" I shot back. "You've obviously ruined my plans for the evening..."

As I continued to walk, a rhythmic thumping sound reached my ears. Dread filled me as I realized that it was footsteps.

 _Don't_ _look at him,_ I told myself. _If you don't pay him any attention, he'll go away._

Alas, even once I reached the end of the bridge, I still felt the keen burn of eyes on my back. Sure as hell, when I turned around, he was right there.

Now, I could identify the outline of him more clearly, but not much else. Luckily for me, he wasn't exceptionally huge or anything, — in fact, he was kind of scrawny, and his stance suggested either a lack of confidence or terrible posture. Then again, considering my current state of mind, I wasn't quite sure I could properly face up to anyone at the moment.

Still, the alcohol flowing through me made it a lot easier to be brave.

"Go on," I told him, as though he were nothing more than a pesky stray dog. "You don't have to worry about me now. I'm going home. Back to my nice, warm bed and people who love me."

Clearly, this answer didn't satisfy him. "Mighty dangerous for you to be walking out here alone."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I snapped. "Listen, dude, you might mean well, but this is the creepiest fucking encounter I have ever had, — you know, seeing how we're by ourselves around a secluded bridge at night and all. Just let me be on my way, won't you? I'll be fine."

Before he could reply, I continued my stride. This time, he didn't appear to be following me.

Still, his parting remark was enough to cause me to turn back to him. "Are you drunk?"

In spite of myself, I stopped walking. Of course, I wasn't in the place to be offended by this question, — I was, in fact, drunk. Still, that inquiry seemed to send me into defense mode without fail, even when it came from complete strangers who I couldn't wait to get away from.

"No," I argued. "Even if I was, what would it matter? I'm a big girl, — I can take care of myself."

He huffed out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, because dangling over the edge of a bridge is the perfect way of showing how great you are at taking care of yourself." He took one last drag off his cigarette before beginning to wander off. "Come on."

I stayed still, eyes going wide. "Come on?" I repeated. "I'm supposed to fall for that?"

"Yeah," he said. "Trust me, I wouldn't hurt a girl to save my own life. I just want you to stick close by until you sober up a little. Wouldn't do for you to back off the ledge just to get hit by a truck... or worse."

Hesitantly, I took a few steps closer to him. "And what's worse than getting hit by a truck, might I ask?" I inquired.

"Getting picked up by the serial killer that's wandering around," he replied easily.

Despite the heat, I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Still, I argued: "There is _not_ a serial killer in _Aberdeen_."

"You haven't heard?" He flicked his cigarette butt into the murky waters. "Girls started going missing a couple weeks ago, in the middle of the night. People can only assume what's happening to them."

He turned away from the water. I was close enough now to breathe in the ghost of his smoke.

"They say the victims were mostly skinny blonde girls," he said solemnly.

I groaned, realizing knowing for sure that he was bullshitting then. "My God, shut up," I said. "Do you really want to be my White Knight that badly?"

"Hey, fine. If you wanna put yourself in danger, be my guest." He started walking again, leaving me with the decision of whether or not to follow him. "But if I see you in the news tomorrow, I won't be able to live with myself."

On a whim, I began trailing him again.

Why the hell not? It wasn't like I truly valued self preservation, seeing as how I came out here in the first place. Besides, there was something about him that piqued my interest. I just wasn't quite certain what.

"Sounds like you're a real nice guy," I told him. "Saving lives. Watching out for defenseless little girls like me." I fell into step beside him, attempting to match my clumsy steps to his easy lope. "Have you just devoted your life to it? Staying out all hours of the night, attending to your calling?"

He snorted, casting a glance my way. "You're quite the smartass, aren't you?" he asked. "But, if this is my calling, it's a lousy one. I'll have you know you were about to kill myself at my home."

I stopped to think about this, my alcohol-clouded brain faltering as I attempted to put two and two together. His home... the bridge?

Without much thought on my part, my mouth opened again. "So what you're saying is that you're a bum?" I asked.

"Something like that," he concurred. Luckily for me and the unsnapped state of my neck, he didn't seem offended.

"That's alright," I assured him, just in case. "I'm kind of a bum, too, in a way. I just kind of mooch off of my aunt..."

"Been there," he interrupted.

"Well... that's quite the coincidence." I giggled slightly. "Did your parents stop wanting to put up with you, too?"

"Pretty much."

"No way!" I laughed, louder this time. "Say, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were just trying to get me to relate to you. You know... to make me feel safe."

"I'm a good liar, but not that good," he told me. "I was pawned off to a bunch of family members for being a little shitstain. And you?"

"I wouldn't call myself a shitstain, necessarily," I responded. " _Delinquent_ seems a bit less harsh, don't you think?"

"Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night." We stopped walking then. The light of a streetlamp came into view up ahead, casting orange light over the ground.

Without warning, the guy took a seat in the strip of grass near the curb. Not even bothering to question him, I followed suit.

Once we were on the same level, I was able to take in the sight of him fully. Shaggy blonde hair framed his unshaven face. He had the mouth of someone who was accustomed to frowning, but his eyes...

As soon as I caught a glimpse of them, he turned to face me head-on. If I wasn't already sitting, I figure I might have fallen over.

They were so pale, and so very blue. Likely the bluest eyes I had ever seen. I could only imagine what they looked like under decent lighting.

I took my messenger bag from off my shoulder, patting the bottom of the bag for my camera. Unfortunately, it seemed I had neglected to bring it along with me.

Even more unfortunately, the guy had seemed to take note of my desperate search.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"My camera." I lifted my head, turning to meet those cold blue eyes in spite of my burning face.

"I wanted to take a picture of you," I admitted.

He grinned at me, like I was a child who had just done something cute. My face grew even hotter. "That's nice and all," he said, "but don't you think we should start with names?"

I shook my head. "I'm still not sure you don't want my head on a stick," I said, slinging my bag back over my arm. "And anyway, I don't even have my camera."

"Well, if I wanted to kill you, you would've already done the wrong thing by following me," he pointed out.

I quickly shot him the middle finger.

He chuckled. "Well, then. Pleasure to meet you, too, Firecracker."

Choosing not to acknowledge the nickname, I nudged him. "Maybe you should tell me your name first," I suggested. "Might make me feel more comfortable."

He paused, his expression becoming rather serious. "You really wanna know, huh?"

I nodded. "If you won't tell me," I started, "I'll walk."

Despite the small smile that he cracked, he shook his head. "Nope," he argued. "You first."

"Why?"

"Because."

"It's that important?"

"Of course it is."

I stopped for a moment, crossing my arms over my chest. Finally, I decided there couldn't be much harm in it, — he was close enough now to do whatever he wanted with me, anyway.

"Anastasia Truehart," I finally blurted out.

Much to my dismay, he burst out laughing. By this point, my face was threatening to burst into flames.

His next remark only added insult to injury. "That can't be real," he said. "What are you, — a fucking Care Bear?"

My face burned, boiling with frustration. "Of course it's real," I spat. "Why? What's your name? John Doe?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "Kurt Cobain."

I huffed out a laugh. "Cobain?" I asked. "Like you have any room to talk about fucking weird last names! Since when do people have the name 'Cobain?' Who the actual hell calls themselves that?"

He continued to stare at me like I was an utter basket case, smiling condescendingly. "Me," he says. "And my dad, and his dad. And my mom, back in the day."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

Abruptly, I found myself rising to my feet. "I'm done here," I announced. "Catch you later, Copenhagen."

To my surprise, the apparent Kurt didn't bother trying to stop my leaving this time. Rather, he easily bid me adieu. "Take it easy, Firecracker. See ya soon."

All the way home, I considered him, — his stupid name, his apparent homelessness, his pretty eyes, his parting words.

Some part of my groggy brain wondered if I'd made a mistake. It wasn't often that the same two random people in this gigantic world would cross paths twice, after all.

I attempted to force these thoughts out of my mind. God, all of this would be just like me, — get forced into some podunk town in a futile attempt to get my life straight again, only to become obsessed with some random homeless guy.

As I approached my Aunt Sharon's house, I promised myself never to visit that bridge on the Wishkah River again, — it was in my best interest, I decided, to forget all about Kurt Copenhagen or whateverthefuck, and the alcohol in my system would surely make it easier for me to do just that.

Still, there was some part of me that longed to cross paths with him again. The next time, I'd have my camera. I could snap his picture then, if only to give myself the smallest piece of him. Something to remember him by, before I shook him for good.

I began learning two lessons that night.

One: at least some twisted version of your weird fantasies will probably come true someday.

Two: be careful what you wish for.


End file.
